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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26621932">I am afraid I should be a Coward</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LalalaLinoleum/pseuds/LalalaLinoleum'>LalalaLinoleum</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>North and South (UK TV), North and South - Ambiguous Fandom, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Denial of Feelings, Epicurus - Freeform, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings, Flailing, Fluff and Angst, Had he behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner, Her heart fluttered, In Denial, Margaret is a prude and that's okay, POV Female Character, Plato's Republic, Romance, Talking to Oneself, That he would love her, Til this moment I never knew myself, Very thin line between love and hate, Victorian Attitudes, marriage proposals</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:27:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26621932</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LalalaLinoleum/pseuds/LalalaLinoleum</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>** 3/24/2021 - I'll update this again eventually. My real romantic life has been an unbelievably crazy rollercoaster lately and I just haven't had the energy to write a good fictional romance for Margaret. Thanks to everyone who's expressed interest in and supported my stories. **</p><p>Sometimes darkness brings enlightenment. Soon after John Thornton's first proposal, our heroine begins to realize that the master of Marlborough Mills isn’t the problem.</p><p>And things go on from there. </p><p>North &amp; South from Margaret Hale's POV, though that changes later on. I tend to stick mostly to the novel, but there will be glimmers of the 2004 BBC adaptation, too.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frederick Hale &amp; Margaret Hale, Margaret Hale &amp; John Thornton, Margaret Hale/John Thornton</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>114</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>157</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I am afraid I should be a Coward</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sometimes darkness brings enlightenment. Soon after John Thornton's first proposal, our heroine begins to realize that the master of Marlborough Mills isn’t the problem.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Margaret Hale sat at her small dressing table, staring dully into the mirror before her as she pulled an ivory hairbrush through her long, nearly-black hair. The rest of the house was silent and dark, the lamplight casting gentle shadows against her face the only outward evidence of life in the place. </p><p><em>Life</em>, she thought sadly, knowing that her mother’s was swiftly moving toward its conclusion. The last two days had been trials, and the future offered no respite. Her mother was dying, her father fragile, and her brother, Frederick, in exile and under constant threat of peril. A threat that would grow if he received the letter Margaret had written him today, begging him to return to England to fulfill his mother’s final wish. </p><p>Despite all this, Margaret found her mind wandering elsewhere. She could still see the mark next to her hairline on her left temple, a souvenir left by a sharp pebble during her adventure at Marlborough Mills the day before. The wound no longer hurt her, but as she touched it, a series of partial images and sounds from the riot and its aftermath flooded her mind’s eye and ear. There was the crush of agitated millworkers in the yard. A flying clog. A scarlet stain blooming on her white fichu. John Thornton’s scowling face, and then his voice…angry at first, and then…strangely tender.</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, my Margaret—my Margaret! no one can tell what you are to me! Dead—cold as you lie there, you are the only woman I ever loved! Oh, Margaret—Margaret!”</em>
</p><p>She flinched at that recollection, though she suspected it wasn’t truly a recollection at all, but rather some twisted artifact of unconsciousness caused by her injury. Like a bizarre dream. Or maybe some hallucination of the present, brought on by the events of today. <em>Today</em>. Not to be outdone by yesterday, today had brought another shocking trial. A proposal. </p><p>Margaret swiftly dropped her hand to her lap. At the soft silver sound of her bracelet clinking gently against her nightgown, she realized that she’d forgotten to remove it as she undressed for the night. She unclasped it, placing it inside the small rosewood jewelry box next to her mirror, then quickly set to the task of braiding her wild mane. As exhausted as she was, she’d never be able to face her hair in the morning if she left it free. Dixon had her hands full with Mamma these days, so Margaret had to make do on her own. </p><p><em>Strands thick as earthworms and twice as unruly</em>, Margaret muttered to herself, struggling to smooth the follicles. The task was still not enough to keep thoughts of the mill, or John Thornton, from reentering her mind. Hannah Thornton was suddenly there, too, as Margaret recalled a conversation from her first visit to the Thornton home. Mrs. Thornton had very pointedly asked her if she were a coward. </p><p>
  <em> “I do not know whether I am brave or not till I am tried; but I am afraid I should be a coward.”</em>
</p><p>Blessed with an insular, loving childhood and sheltered young womanhood, Margaret had passed eighteen years of life with little reason to question the order of her world, or her place in it. But now she knew there was so much left to learn, and so little precious time in which to learn it. </p><p>Before Milton, Margaret had never given much thought to whether or not she was a particularly brave or strong person. She’d never considered herself a snob, either, but Milton had a way of challenging a person’s sense of self straight down to her core. It was not unlike the cold of its northern climate, chilling straight through to the bone. Cold, hard, merciless…well, perhaps Miltonians would consider their city more <em>honest and direct</em> - either way, there was little comfort here, materially or emotionally.  Every brewing crisis, personal or otherwise, came to a head sooner or later. There was no way to hide from the truth in Milton. </p><p>Mrs. Thornton had insisted that Milton was no place for cowards. It was certainly the most trying place Margaret had ever known, for it included more than its fair share of trying people - well, one trying person in particular. She had decided early on that she disliked John Thornton, but it was increasingly apparent that Margaret actually feared him in some confounding way. But why?</p><p>He was no monster, and a mere odious personality could not scare Margaret Hale. She certainly could admit to not liking John Thornton very much, but the threat she felt wasn’t just a matter of not getting along. Not even John’s mother - cut from the same cloth as her son, it seemed - raised Margaret’s hackles in anything close to the same manner. </p><p>Margaret was beginning to understand that the threat lay in his being a man. But not just any man, a general representative of the more frustrating sex. Rather, he was a very particular, singular type of man. </p><p>
  <em>“And so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring love. What did he mean? Had she not the power to daunt him? She would see. It was more daring than became a man to threaten her so.”</em>
</p><p>It was distressing enough to for him to force her to hear that he wanted her, but that wasn’t the real problem. This went far beyond the presumption, the audacity of loving her when she thought she did not want to be loved. After all, even tepid Henry had told Margaret he loved her more than ever when he left her that fateful day in Helstone. But she did not fear Henry. With John Thornton, it was not so tidy.</p><p>No, the real anguish came when Margaret realized that she might want John Thornton, too. Her own body was betraying her in a battle she was beginning to doubt she could win. There was an…inevitability in this man that she knew she could not outlast, and yet she still could not bring herself to face it. The proper vicar’s daughter within her would rather die.</p><p>Margaret had always expected that given the right circumstances, she would fall in love, want to marry, and have children. She knew that meant physical things, but she’d never bargained for the added terror presented by lust. Not just his - which was now obvious - but <em>hers</em>. Those searing thrills and the consuming aches that suddenly knocked the wind out of her weren’t just about righteous anger. John Thornton lit her up, and that was what frightened her most. </p><p>Like Milton itself, he defied every convention she knew. Emotionally and intellectually, he thrust her beyond all her prior experience. His knowledge and opinions challenged her values and worldview. He was determined to speak his mind and demanded justice when he felt he had been mischaracterized or otherwise wronged. His mere <em>presence</em> seemed to make demands. This was enough to raise Margaret’s ire, <em>selfish man</em>, but there was yet more. Simply in existing somewhere in the world, he affected her…intrinsically, and not just by getting the better of her emotions, or in sending jolts of something straight up the center of her body. Margaret knew she had allowed her deepest self to be breached in some fundamental way, and she was left struggling to understand it. </p><p>
  <em>“…the clear conviction dawned upon her, shined bright upon her, that he did love her; that he had loved her; that he would love her. And she shrank and shuddered as under the fascination of some great power, repugnant to her whole previous life. She crept away, and hid from his idea…She disliked him the more for having mastered her inner will. How dared he say that he would love her still, even though she shook him off with contempt?”</em>
</p><p>He didn’t mean harm. In fact, she now believed that he truly did care for her. So why did it feel like a personal invasion, a war over some sacred territory within her, to know this? Even Henry, the only other man who came close to treading upon her self-sovereignty, never threatened her equilibrium more than temporarily. Proposal aside, Henry’s brand of inscrutability was self-contained and crafted to minimize offense. Margaret could ignore Henry most of the time. But Thornton was lawless in that regard. He was a different breed of man from a different world, where the southern code of gentlemanly conduct did not apply. Perhaps Margaret could use this code as a way to cut Henry off and save her the trouble of dealing with the inconvenience of other people’s emotions, but there was an insistence about John that constantly put him near the center of her thoughts. Even when he was minding his own business. Even now, when they were apart and she should be enjoying the oblivion of slumber. </p><p>Margaret exhaled quickly, then found herself stifling a yawn as she pressed her palms gently against her her eyelids. <em>Proposals, always inauspicious</em>. She’d now received two, both of them marking a turning in her life. Henry proposed on the day her father announced the family’s removal to Milton, and Thornton declared himself immediately after that mortifying day at the mill. She knew what was coming next. Mamma. Bessy. And God knows what else. </p><p>John’s proposal unleashed a torrent of pent up emotions within Margaret. She wasn’t one to dwell much in self-pity, but she was not impervious to guilt, sorrow, and dread, three feelings with which she had not come to terms in some time. As the swift cloud of feeling began to subside a bit, she realized that her reaction to the proposal was less about John Thornton making her feel things she didn’t want to feel than it was a rebellion against everything that threatened her and those she loved. </p><p>But more than grief and fear, the sharpest sensation she felt on that score, at this moment, was shame. Shame at having endangered both herself and John in the midst of the mill riot. In her haste to help (and if she was completely honest with herself, to prove she wasn’t a coward), she had made a fraught situation even worse. </p><p>She also felt shame for propagating, well - a lie - at his expense. John may have considered his proposal an unmitigated disaster, but Margaret could acknowledge now that it was honest and well-intended. As for her own share in the unfortunate event, Margaret felt she had acted cruelly, even fraudulently. Out of pride, she had buried her confusion, shame and mortification under a thick blanket of moral indignation. Certainly, her immediate reaction had been almost involuntary - she faltered as she grasped not only for words, but for her very feelings. But this could not excuse her. She was not so seriously upset with John to blame him as she did. </p><p>Margaret was most ashamed, however, of her own snobbery. She was contending with the last, dying embers of her assumption that John Thornton could never really love her. This wasn’t because she felt herself so unworthy of true love. Rather, she had fancied up until now that John Thornton was unworthy of feeling it. </p><p>
  <em>“In Mr. Thornton’s case, as far as Margaret knew, there was no intervening stage of friendship. Their intercourse had been one continued series of opposition. Their opinions clashed; and indeed, she had never perceived that he had cared for her opinions, as belonging to her, the individual.”</em>
</p><p>Until now, Margaret was satisfied to let the truth about John Thornton lay obscured behind gauzy layers of her own prejudice and naiveté. It was easy enough to belittle and dismiss a man one considered beneath her respect. John Thornton wasn’t worthy because he wasn’t a gentleman, she’d thought. But what made a gentleman, or rather, a worthy man? He wasn’t a gentleman because he was in trade (<em>Really Margaret, he is *a manufacturer* - there is a difference!</em>). Because he valued profits and was sometimes cold to his workers. Because he was a northerner. Because his accent wasn’t genteel. Because he’d never completed a gentleman’s education. Because he was sometimes brutally honest. Because he was sometimes brash and raw and angry. Because he didn’t act like the gentlemen Margaret knew. Because he didn’t have the luxury of seeing the world through Margaret’s yellow-rose-colored glasses. Because, well, he was <em>different</em>. None of this, when she created a mental list of the various ways in which he defied her sense of propriety, seemed like good enough reasons to dislike John Thornton the way she wished to… </p><p>
  <em>“…not quite a gentleman; but that was hardly to be expected.”</em>
</p><p>Margaret blinked at the girl in the mirror, casting her eyes downward as her lips twisted into something halfway between a grimace and a frown. Even in the dark, she couldn’t manage to meet her own eyes. <em>Maybe I am a coward, after all.</em></p><p>With a deep breath, she steeled herself to match gazes with Mirror Margaret once again. </p><p><em>The Allegory of the Cave is backwards</em>, Margaret thought as she doused the lamp and climbed into her bed. It wasn’t the full light of day that provided understanding, but rather the shadows of night in this tiny bedroom which allowed her to finally begin to see things for what they were.</p><p>For when she thought of him now, <em>her heart fluttered. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Her Heart Fluttered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>But he took no notice of her. </p><p>More Margaret Hale POV. It'll pick up speed eventually.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Her heart fluttered.</em>
</p><p>But he took no notice of her. </p><p>There was an odd, bittersweet kind of ache seeping downwards from deep within Margaret’s breast, some strange combination of anticipation, confusion, and dread. It wasn’t like the sharp blooms of terrifying pleasure she’d felt before when they clashed, but there was a certain looking-glass complementarity, a kinship between the feelings, as if the world had flipped into a reflection of itself since she last saw him. Things appeared very much as they ever were in every concrete detail, and yet on broader inspection, everything seemed so backwards. </p><p>His presence at the Crampton house was oppressive, but not in the way she might have described it even a day ago, during his proposal. Things were different now. She wanted to avoid more confrontation and awkwardness, yes, but the more painful revelation was that she could not bear to be ignored, either. </p><p>
  <em>"He was gone. Not one word: not one look to Margaret. She believed that he had not seen her."</em>
</p><p>It was not what she expected. Margaret was at a loss to define what she <em>had</em> expected, however, once she posed herself the question. Did she really expect him to carry on as before? Or perhaps she assumed - hoped - that he would rise to the challenge and learn a better way of convincing her she should return his feelings.</p><p>
  <em>Really, Margaret.</em>
</p><p>It went on like this for some time. Mr. Thornton would bring her mother fruit and kind words, with little more than cold silence for his great love, Margaret. She could hardly blame him, but it stung just the same. Juxtaposed with the very tender deeds and words reserved for her parents, especially her mother, it felt rather like something vital had been torn from deep inside her, something she didn’t know she’d needed until it was wrenched away from her.</p><p>Worse, she hadn’t the foggiest idea of how to right the situation. Margaret felt utterly adrift. She couldn’t force him to listen to her, not that she had any idea what she should say. She couldn't force him to speak to her, either. In truth, she’d rather be ignored than subjected to his scornful, beautiful, venomous glances, or worse, his sharp, wounded tongue. But she couldn’t remain silent forever. </p><p>The situation became so insufferable that Margaret was horrified to find herself babbling non sequiturs about “knobsticks” at him one day, completely unbidden. She told herself it was because she didn’t want him to take offense at an earlier comment made to her mother about the vulgarity of local slang, but there was no small part of Margaret that simply needed to communicate…<em>something</em> to him. Something like regret for having wounded him, and possibly more, even if it did take the form of mortifying nonsense that made her feel ridiculous.</p><p>Of course, it barely registered with Mr. Thornton. In any direct way, at least. Though he did not look at her or address her, it soon became clear that he was painfully aware of her presence, her moods, her statements. He would look at anything, anyone but her. He would respond to her words, her presence in only pointedly roundabout ways.</p><p>It should have been infuriating, but Margaret was grateful at least that it was not true indifference. She could understand his anger and dearly wished to repair what she realized now had been a real friendship. And though she wasn’t proud of it, she also craved some scrap of proof - even if it came to her cold and steeped in spite - that he still loved her as he claimed he would.</p><p>Given the circumstances, Margaret was in no position to fully define her own feelings. Even in a happier season, it would have taken a bit of time for her to be ready to recognize her new regard for John Thornton as love. Building up the courage for her to act upon it was another matter entirely. There was no denying that she admired him more than she ever thought possible, and in some ways that made her blush and shiver to think of, but she was still too young, inexperienced, and presently overwrought to even begin to know what to do about it on her own.</p><p>So, she took what she had and made do.</p><p>Without being aware of it until it was done, Margaret let his love for her - as cloistered as it was for the time being - become an unlikely lodestar. Facing so much loss and loneliness and with nothing else to comfort her, knowing that he loved - and would love - warmed her heart. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Very Kind Friend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Frederick complicates matters and Margaret has an(other) epiphany.</p><p>Yes, I misappropriated a line from Emma. ;)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For some time, Margaret had wondered if she had erred in summoning Frederick as her mother had wished. Papa was right - as much as Mamma deserved to see her firstborn one last time in life, England was a tremendous risk for the younger Mr. Hale, and might always remain so. All that said, there was nothing to be done about it now. Any damage to be done <em>was</em> done by this point. Margaret began to wonder if her brother had even received her letter, as it was already October. She’d sent off her letter at the end of July, and still no Frederick. Not even a note in reply. </p><p>The time had passed quickly - too quickly, it seemed, given the circumstances. But Margaret found that she had little time to dwell on her grief and dread. That wasn’t to say she didn’t have pangs of sadness, loneliness, and general anguish. They were, in fact, frequent, and it wasn’t so very uncommon for her to fall dead asleep in mid-cry, on a pillowful of tears. The one saving grace was that these bouts tended to be short-lived. Not because she bore up so well, but because there was always something pressing these feelings from the forefront of her mind and heart. </p><p>When it wasn’t exhaustion, it was responsibility. Of course, there was Mamma to care for. Margaret still felt herself struggling with Dixon over jurisdiction of Mrs. Hale’s well-being, but the truth was that there was more than enough to keep them both occupied on that score. And then there was Papa. Mr. Hale required extra care and consideration given his fragile emotional state. He was always kind and did his best to remain present, but Margaret knew how brittle and distracted he had become. He wasn’t simply staring down the loss of his dear wife, he was also struggling with the feeling that his decisions had hastened - if not outright caused - her condition. Margaret knew she couldn’t banish his cares, but she hoped that her presence and loving attention would soothe the harsher edges of his pain. </p><p>Margaret dearly wished for some intermediary, not just to give her a respite, but to give her father the kind of support and distraction that she could not. Someone other than herself to cheer her father and bring out something other than the habitual, repeating loop of sadness and resignation that her presence seemed to reinforce in him. There was John - <em>Mr. Thornton</em> - of course, but his visits were fewer and farther between these days, normally short, and focused more on Mrs. Hale’s condition than anything, for obvious reasons. And then of course there was the mill to keep him occupied, which was still struggling from the effects of the strike. Then there was Margaret herself. As much as she tried to make amends, she knew she was a source of profound ambivalence for Mr. Thornton - even more than he was to her. </p><p>Though he never directly sought her out, his presence - and even simply the thought of him - now gave Margaret a strange sense of comfort. It was hard to reconcile with the fact that he still made her flutter and stir inside - very much so, in fact - but she didn’t have the energy to question it too much. After all, the friendship he shared with her father and the lovely things he did for her mother were so exceptionally kind and sweet that it would take a hard heart indeed not to feel warmed by it. </p><p>He couldn’t bring himself to show her his affection or friendship directly, but it seemed obvious to Margaret that a portion of his attentions to her parents were actually paid in surrogacy to her. Not all of it, she thought, but some. His pointed iciness toward her was proof of it, making such a show of being as resentful to her as he was loving to her parents. And that dependability, ironic and cold a comfort as it was, was enough to bond them sufficiently for the time being in Margaret’s eyes. </p><p>Margaret never stopped to consider how strange her feelings were, how odd it was to find solace - and at times even to revel, to be entirely truthful - in the distant affections of a man who barely spoke to her and, in fact, remained bitterly frustrated with her. But it was very much in accordance with the overarching theme of loneliness and emotional estrangement that began to permeate her life long ago, even before arriving in Milton.</p><p>Margaret had, in effect, become so used to feelings of isolation that it became a habit for her to accept a modicum of distance in nearly all of her relationships. While she fought now to reclaim her parents - especially her mother, who was often monopolized by Dixon - and she had found a real closeness with Bessy Higgins, circumstances always ended up conspiring against her. </p><p>Margaret had been isolated from her parents in one way or another, for long stretches of time, since she moved to London at age 9. She had been isolated from her brother since he joined the Navy, and then even moreso since the mutiny sent him abroad and left her parents in fear of betraying him merely by remembering him. With Edith married and out of the country,  sweet Bessy gone, her mother on her deathbed, and her dearest father distanced by grief and guilt, Margaret was left with no one to support her, and nothing else to soften her pain. </p><p>As for Mr. Thornton and <em>his</em> feelings, Margaret was very close to right. If required to describe it, he might have called her presence a “stinging pleasure.” Recalling a conversation he’d had with Mr. Hale about Epicurus, it had occurred to John more than once that it was double-sided emotions like this that made the philosopher warn his acolytes against falling in love. </p><p>It cut him deeply to be near her, thinking she could never care for him, but it was a million times less painful than not being able to see her at all. Like Margaret, John had become almost - <em>almost</em> - stoic in accepting his new reality. If easing her family’s burden in some small ways, and breathing in her air from time to time as he did it, was the best he could do for her…with her, he would take it. Even if it wasn’t nearly enough. </p><p>Little did he know that very soon, he would be called to do more, though under very different circumstances than he would have liked. </p><p>Just as Margaret began to accept the idea that Frederick would not come, he appeared on the Hales’ doorstep as if by a miracle. He was not a moment too soon. Margaret and her parents were temporarily buoyed by his presence, but the elation did not last long. Mrs. Hale passed on almost immediately after their reunion, and it soon became clear that Frederick was not safe in Milton. With news from Dixon that an old acquaintance was in town and hoping to find and betray her brother, Margaret knew she and her father would not be able to keep Frederick to themselves for even one more day. </p><p>As it turned out, the family’s plan to usher Frederick out of Milton via Outwood Station proved a near-disaster. Aside from Frederick’s altercation with said old acquaintance, Mr. Thornton had seen the brother and sister together at the station…and they had, in turn, noticed him. This was unsettling to Margaret, but not immediately alarming. In her preoccupation with seeing her brother safely on his way out of the country, it hadn’t yet occured to her that John - her silent, distant rock - had witnessed her holding hands in public with a man. A man that he didn’t know was her sibling. </p><p>“He is an unprepossessing-looking fellow. What a scowl he has!” Frederick said of John Thornton, at that moment. </p><p>“Something has happened to vex him,” Margaret responded, flushing under the displeasure in the mill-master’s gaze.“You would not have thought him unprepossessing if you had seen him with Mamma.”</p><p>Not long before, back at the Crampton house, Margaret had tried - and failed - to convey to her brother exactly <em>what</em> Mr. Thornton was. </p><p>Catching a glimpse of him from behind, Frederick had dismissed him as a mere tradesman, denying him the title of <em>gentleman</em> much as Margaret had once done. Margaret had attempted to correct her brother, but after struggling for some moments, she settled on describing Mr. Thornton as a “very kind friend.” However, that too was wholly inadequate. </p><p>Margaret would have reiterated that he was a gentleman and left it at that, but she was surprised to realize that “gentleman” was even <em>more</em> inadequate. At one time - as recently as July, at the Thornton’s dinner party, which now might as well have been decades ago - “gentleman” would have been the highest category of worthy manhood to which Margaret could have ascribed anyone. But now she saw things much differently. </p><p>At the party, she and John had sparred a bit over the value and meaning of the term. He had considered it debased in its overuse, favoring instead the more essential and less elitist title of “true man.” </p><p>“A man is to me a higher and a completer being than a gentleman,” he’d said. Margaret wasn’t convinced at the time, but days later, as she attempted to brush the tangles out of her hair and  the clouds of prejudice from her eyes and mind, she began to realize that John was right. </p><p><em>Gentleman</em> was such an insipid word, and applied to such insipid people. Margaret liked and respected men like Henry Lennox, but in truth - while honorable, competent and good - they remained unremarkable and uninteresting. <em>Someone like John</em>, on the other hand…</p><p>
  <em>If a true man ever existed, you might not see one in a hundred with true man so plainly written as in Mr. Thornton. </em>
</p><p><em>Someone like John</em>, she continued to herself rather dreamily, on the way home from Outwood Station…</p><p>
  <em>Has seen you holding hands, in public, with a man he doesn’t know is your brother! </em>
</p><p>Margaret’s mind had suddenly shifted into a new, transitional space. The full brunt of mourning wouldn’t hit her until she was home again with her father and Dixon, affording her, for the moment, the luxury of a brief sliver of insight that had eluded her in the midst of her brother’s escape and all its attendant anxieties. </p><p>While Margaret cared little about small-minded Miltonian gossip and the brittle, false construct of “reputation,” she suddenly realized that she did care - very much - that John Thornton knew she remained virtuous, serious, and - in the purest, most distant and philosophical way possible, at least - <em>his</em>. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Peaceful Faith</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I continue to push the elephant uphill. ;) Margaret hopes to clear the air. Sh*t is about to hit the fan.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Even in her mourning she would rest with a peaceful faith upon his sympathy.”</em>
</p><p>Back at home, Margaret’s next days passed in a series of emotional waves. She would bob up out of the currents of grief for a time, to be brave for her father, then sink back again as she realized her mother was gone. She also feared for Frederick, still in London and waiting to meet with Henry to see how he might fight his sentence. And then, of course, there was Mr. Thornton.</p><p>Part of Margaret desperately wanted to clear the air between them, but other parts were more reticent. She was terrified of broaching the topic of her brother with anyone, now that he’d been seen in England. While Margaret knew that John wouldn’t do anything to purposefully harm her family, it was his duty to follow the law as a magistrate. No matter how much he loved her or respected her father, he couldn’t be expected to bear this burden.</p><p>No. As long as Frederick remained in London, Margaret would remain silent about her brother. And with the funeral, Margaret wouldn’t have an opportunity to discuss the matter with John in any case. She was sad and exhausted, spending much of her time praying with and for her poor, broken father as he struggled to part with the remains of his deceased wife.</p><p>Margaret decided early on that she would accompany her father to the funeral, even though it wasn’t typical for gentlewomen to attend these services. Her father had considered asking John to attend to him instead, but Margaret insisted that Mr. Hale not engage the mill master. She wanted to go for her father’s sake, obviously, which would make it unnecessary for Mr. Hale to ask anyone else. Even more than this, however, Margaret knew wasn’t in a state to face Mr. Thornton just yet. After the funeral, she felt her mind might be clearer and Frederick might be safely on his way to Cadiz.</p><p>When her father informed her that the Thorntons had offered their carriage for the procession, however, she began to feel some real annoyance - and anxiety - at the idea of John's absence.</p><p><em>Why doesn’t he come himself? Why send an empty carriage?</em> Margaret didn’t know quite how to read the gesture. Could John be avoiding her over what he saw at Outwood? In truth, Margaret vacillated between fearing the worst on one hand, and on the other, almost convincing herself that Mr. Thornton must have sensed that Frederick was no lover. After all, brother and sister looked enough alike, didn’t they? And engaged in such innocent, fraternal embraces, too.</p><p>Her sentiment on the matter of the carriage was a curiosity to her father. Seconds before, after all, Margaret had insisted that Mr. Thornton not be asked to come. “Such a mockery of mourning that I did not expect it from him,” Margaret had snapped in response to Mr. Hale’s bemusement, just before bursting into tears.</p><p>Margaret did not know that Mr. Thornton had indeed attended the funeral, hovering near the back. She did not know that he had inquired after her when speaking to Dixon that day. And, she did not know just how desperately he still needed to be near her, suspicions be damned.</p><p>When Mr. Thornton finally called upon her father to pay his respects directly, Margaret felt honest relief for the first time in a long while. A visit from Papa’s dear friend would keep his mind off of Mamma and Frederick for a moment, at least. But there was more to the feeling than this, of course. She needed to <em>see</em> him. Even if he continued to ignore her, she needed to ascertain for herself that nothing had fundamentally changed between them.</p><p>Margaret knew she would be able to tell. In three months of near silence, strange as it sounded, she had learned to read him better than in the previous eight of actual discourse. The absence of conversation forced her to search for deeper meaning in everything else. She studied every feature, expression, and mood down to the subtlest detail, learning everything she had missed in her previous haste to push him away.</p><p>She hung back when John arrived, her diffidence a product of her uncertainty of him. But Margaret discovered - almost immediately - that her power over him had not diminished.</p><p>At first, he seemed determined to ignore her as usual. That - on its own, at least - wouldn’t have indicated any alteration of feeling. He had, after all, pointedly, silently cut her for weeks and weeks now. But what happened next was remarkable. </p><p>John hesitated, seemingly touched by the sad, earnest expression on her face. Then he went to her - he actually altered his course to accommodate rather than avoid her - and offered his condolences with a tenderness that could’ve melted anything.</p><p>Even the ice she normally saw in his eyes.</p><p>Margaret turned away, overcome by a mixture of emotions. Her first instinct was to reach out to him, to say something, perhaps to explain everything, but beyond that her plan failed her.</p><p><em>What would I be reaching for, exactly?</em> she asked herself, mortified. <em>How could I even think of touching him with Papa here? And what could I possibly say - beyond basic civilities - that wouldn’t end my poor, dear father?</em></p><p>She kept her eyes averted, tears spilling down her cheeks. For the moment, there was nothing to be done. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. It is Ended</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Margaret is saved, but at what cost?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Then it is ended,” said Margaret. “There is to be no further enquiry.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I believe I’ve got Mr. Thornton’s note about me,” said the Inspector, fumbling in his pocket-book. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mr. Thornton’s!” said Margaret.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes! he’s a magistrate—ah! here it is.”</em>
</p><p>In the space of less than a day, Margaret’s world had tumbled in upon itself… again.</p><p>Frederick’s assailant at the station - Leonards - was dead. Margaret herself had been seen on the platform at the time of the altercation. And worst of all - to protect her brother - she’d lied about her presence there to the police inspector, who in turn referred the matter to a magistrate named… John Thornton.</p><p>It was harrowing enough to have lied to the authorities to protect her fugitive brother, but the fact that Mr. Thornton was the magistrate of record on the case made the situation that much worse.</p><p>
  <em>Yet also better…</em>
</p><p><em>Better?! More complicated.</em> Margaret closed and bolted her bed-chamber door, throwing herself face down upon her little bed, too exhausted even to bother changing into her nightgown.</p><p>Numb and spent as she might have been, Margaret still immediately regretted her decision. The busk of her corset dug painfully into her sternum, while her petticoats bunched uncomfortably under her knees. And her boots! She was still fully shod, her feet hanging awkwardly off the edge of the mattress.</p><p>
  <em>This will not do.</em>
</p><p>Margaret reluctantly flopped herself onto her back and then into a seated position. She glanced toward the mirror on her dressing table, catching a glimpse of her haggard face and tousled hair. Her dull black dress did her no favors, bringing out dark rings around her eyes and rendering her skin as pale as chalk. Margaret wasn’t even twenty, yet she appeared more like a widow of middle age than a young lady mourning her mother. </p><p><em>Nothing about this is happy, except Fred’s safety</em>, she thought, looking away from the horror in the mirror to resume her earlier attempt at making sense of everything.</p><p>Since yesterday, Margaret had received word from Frederick that he was safely out of England. She’d had no way of knowing it at the time, but Fred - her only reason for speaking anything other than the truth - was already safe when she lied to the inspector, making her falsehood wholly, regrettably unnecessary in the first place.</p><p>Then there was the mortifying fact that <em>Mr. Thornton</em> had closed the case after meeting with the coroner. Certainly, neither Frederick nor Margaret had dreamed that the minor tussle at the station could have killed the man. In fact, Margaret was quite sure it couldn’t. Still, she doubted that a conclusion a fraction as swift would have been possible had any other magistrate been in charge. Especially given that John knew she’d lied. He’d seen her at the station earlier that evening, with his own eyes! By all rights, he ought to have let her twist in the wind on that score. <em>But he hadn’t. </em></p><p>In truth, Margaret didn’t know what to make of that. Clearly, John was protecting her family. For her father’s sake, at the least, though she wanted to flatter herself that Mr. Thornton did it out of love for her. With so many things shifting so sharply and so suddenly, however, Margaret began to fear that his feelings may have changed after all.</p><p>
  <em>But he was so tender the last time I saw him! Certainly he wasn’t angry about things at the station if he could still look at me that way!</em>
</p><p>Margaret pulled a large Indian shawl from the end of the bed - where it had fallen days before - and wrapped it about her shoulders. She could barely remember a time when she felt truly warm inside, beyond that brief interaction with Mr. Thornton after her mother’s funeral.</p><p>Summer, perhaps.</p><p>
  <em>The day John proposed, Margaret.</em>
</p><p>The thought was careless, unguarded, completely unbidden…and thoroughly, painfully honest. It made her pale cheeks suddenly flash very hot and - as she could see in a stolen glance back at the mirror - very pink. </p><p>But then there was the lie. Since that last meeting, Margaret had lied to the inspector about her presence at the station, and John didn’t know <em>why</em>.</p><p>She tried to guess his thoughts on that score and failed; all the effort won her was further confusion and frustration. Margaret tried to convince herself that Mr. Thornton knew that her actions were beyond mere self-preservation. He <em>had</em> to know that it was beneath her to lie that way merely to defend a reckless lover over a stupid round of fisticuffs…or indeed for her to have a reckless lover at all. <em>Surely</em>, if Mr. Thornton loved her, he should trust that her actions - and taste - would be higher-minded than that.</p><p>Margaret winced, slamming a small fist against the bedclothes beneath her. She longed to speak to him like a rational person, instead of hiding behind her shame and fear. She dearly wished to explain everything as she had wanted to do since the night of Frederick’s escape. At the very least it would give her the chance to understand where she stood, even if, it meant learning she’d fallen from the heights of her former place in John Thornton’s heart.</p><p>At that point, all Margaret could hear was his voice in her head, from a conversation long ago, deploring all dishonorable conduct and deceit. She remembered her response, too, and it pierced her heart. She had insinuated he was a hypocrite for upholding broad concepts of justice and transparency in his dealings, while making a habit of using market conditions to his advantage, as any man of business would.</p><p>She had essentially called him unchivalrous, if not outright unchristian. <em>John Thornton, now my savior, unchivalrous!</em></p><p>
  <em>Who is the hypocrite now, Margaret?</em>
</p><p>She stared down at her hands, watching the teardrops collecting between her fingers. Margaret barely felt them. All she could truly feel at that moment was the searing realization that she desperately loved Mr. Thornton, and would continue to love him, even if he no longer cared for her.</p><p>How backwards, how wrong, how perverse it all was.</p><p>Margaret decided then and there that if Mr. Thornton didn’t come to them tomorrow, she would go to him. Mourning customs, social rules governing the propriety of gentlemen and young ladies doing…well, anything, really…all of it be damned. The first chance she got, she would take.</p><p>
  <em>“She stood a liar in his eyes. But she had no thought of penitence before God; nothing but chaos and night surrounded the one lurid fact that, in Mr. Thornton’s eyes, she was degraded.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, Frederick! Frederick!” she cried, “what have I not sacrificed for you!” </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Things will get cooking next chapter, I promise! Thanks to everyone who's left kind comments and kudos. Please leave me feedback - I love to hear from you!</p><p>"Twist in the wind" is a 20th century idiom (coined by Nixon advisor John Ehrlichman in 1973, as far as I can tell) rooted in 18th century slang, but I decided to use it anyway. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Poor Little Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Margaret creates an opportunity to confront Mr. Thornton.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the full light of day, Margaret’s settled plan from the night before seemed much less certain. Her mind was no different, but she did begin to understand the complexities that threatened her scheme. </p><p>She woke early, her eyes dry and heavy from interrupted sleep, and fretted and stewed until late afternoon. Margaret prayed that Dixon and her father wouldn’t notice her brittleness of mood, but she needn’t have worried. Mr. Hale was as caught up in his own reveries as ever, and Dixon kept to herself in the kitchen for most of the day. </p><p><em>What if he does not come?</em> she wondered as the clock chimed four, a gentle bloom of panic rising within her. Obviously, he had a mill to manage, but Papa was so certain he would come at some point, even if only for a moment - Mr. Thornton had a book for him, after all. </p><p><em>What if he</em> does <em>come?</em> As anxious as Margaret was to see him, she was also strangely terrified at the prospect. Her heart leaped in equal measures of anticipation and dread whenever the door-bell rang. </p><p>In truth, Margaret hadn’t given much thought to what she would say, or even how she would manage to get him alone enough to say it. What if he refused to hear her? What if he rejected her after all? What if he harangued her for her hypocrisy? “Perhaps that is all I deserve,” she muttered audibly, her father perking at the sound of her voice.</p><p>“What was that, dear Margaret?” Mr. Hale asked, removing his spectacles to concentrate on her face.</p><p>She looked up from her mending, attempting to smooth her features under his scrutiny. “Nothing, Papa…I’m just a very sorry darner, and now my stockings will have lumps. Lumps I deserve, for being so… impatient in my work.” Margaret stood up, tossing needle, stocking, and darning egg into her sewing box. </p><p>She exhaled as she stretched her limbs lightly, imagining herself standing tongue-tied before John Thornton. What if after all her efforts, all she could do was stare at him…or worse, flee. That would be worst of all, as it would prove that Hannah Thornton was right: <em>Margaret Hale</em> is <em>a coward.</em> </p><p>At that moment, the door-bell rang again, freezing Margaret in place.  </p><p>“I imagine that’s John,” said, Mr. Hale, a note of happy relief in his voice and a small smile touching the edges of his mouth. For her father’s sake, at least as much as her own, Margaret hoped he was right. </p><p>But there was only one set of feet making the ascent to the upstairs drawing room - Dixon’s. “A boy from Mr. Thornton’s…with a book,” she announced with a dispirited sigh. “Sent with Mr. Thornton’s kind regards, and wishes to know how Mr. Hale is.”</p><p>“Is there a letter?” Margaret’s father asked, a brief pitch of desperation in his question. He opened the book in hope of finding a note of some kind, rifling briefly through the pages. </p><p>“No sir,” Dixon replied, shaking her head before removing downstairs. </p><p>Mr. Hale looked at Margaret, as if echoing the question with his eyes. “This isn’t like John. He was so firm about wishing to discuss the book in person today. He must have intended something more in the way of explanation. Perhaps there was a written message that was misplaced along the way…”</p><p>Margaret stepped closer to her father, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “Papa, let me inquire for you. I can be to Marlborough Mills and back home again before dark.” </p><p>The thought few out of her mouth, already hanging in the air before Margaret had a chance to make proper sense of it. <em>Little matter - weak as it may be, it’s the only opportunity you’ll get today. Make the most of it. </em></p><p>Her father blinked at her, considering the possibility, then nodded his assent. “Be quick, and be careful, dearest girl.” </p><p>Margaret barely paused to kiss her father’s cheek before dashing to her bedroom to retrieve her crape-covered bonnet and her new paletot of fine black wool. After pulling on the coat, she paused to check her reflection in her dressing table mirror. <em>My mortification is worth this, at least,</em> she thought, grateful for the awkward flush that obscured just how pale she’d grown. </p><p>She tucked back a few stray wisps of hair before carefully arranging her bonnet. “Nothing else to be done about this mess now,” she murmured at Mirror-Margaret. Moments later, she flew down the stairs before Dixon could stop her. </p><p>As she rushed out the door and away from Crampton, Margaret’s anticipation mixed with anxiety. “Bear up, poor little heart…time to be brave,” she continued to herself, unconsciously pressing a gloved hand against her fluttering heart. This was no time for nerves - it was time to mount a plan of attack!</p><p>Margaret hoped to find him at the mill, preferably alone. The thought caused a brief flicker of shame within her, but how else could she unburden herself? Visiting the house was out of the question in any case, as Mrs. Thornton was always there, hovering like a cold shadow. Once that lady saw her, Margaret knew she’d never manage to see John on his own. </p><p>She arrived at the mill gate with alacrity, heartened to note that the yard still bustled with enough activity to provide her cover.  Margaret’s first plan was simply to walk straight to Mr. Thornton’s office in hopes that she would remain unnoticed, but she quickly realized the foolishness of the notion when she acknowledged two facts: one, she didn’t know precisely where Mr. Thornton’s office was (or, indeed, even if John was there at the moment), and two, one of the mill managers, Mr. Williams, had almost immediately recognized her. </p><p>Margaret silently chastised her own naivete. After the riot, she was infamous at Marlborough Mills - hardly someone who could hope to just blend in. And now swathed in deep mourning weeds, she would be absolutely impossible to miss. </p><p>“I need to speak to Mr. Thornton” she explained as he approached, hoping her agitation read more like gravity than nerves. “I have a message for him from Mr. Hale. It’s…important.”</p><p>“He’s in his office, miss, but… knock first,” the man replied, his expression intended as a warning. <em>He must be in high dudgeon</em>, Margaret thought, chagrined, as she followed Williams’ gestured directions. </p><p>She found the door, pausing momentarily to gather her wits. After two deep breaths and a rapid, silent prayer, Margaret rapped firmly on the thick wood before her. </p><p>The ensuing beats of silence reverberated slowly, excrutiatingly through her entire being. She briefly considered turning around and running straight home, but immediately scrapped the idea when she finally heard him. </p><p>“Enter,” the voice commanded, in a considerably more subdued tone than she expected. </p><p>Margaret gingerly pushed her way into the room, peering cautiously around the door. </p><p>There he was, poring over orders, bills, and ledgers in his shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, his cravat undone and fingers idly raking through his dark hair as he concentrated on the mess scattered across his broad desk. He didn’t look up. </p><p>“Mr. Thornton?” Her voice was more hesitant than she wished. Margaret wanted to <em>sound</em> equal to the task ahead of her, even if she did not feel entirely up to it.</p><p>She saw his shoulders jerk slightly as he raised his eyes to look at her. His expression betrayed his disbelief. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, as if he expected her to disappear like a figment of his imagination. </p><p>“Yes, I’m still here,” Margaret answered his silent question, her voice no longer hesitant yet still soft. “Williams told me where I could find you.”</p><p>John Thornton thought of Margaret Hale a hundred times a day at least, imagining her in every possible setting and context. He spent the greater part of most days cycling ambivalently through emotions ranging from desperate pining to bitter, jealous rage. But all of that evaporated when she appeared in front of him, here, like this. As he’d learned the day after Mrs. Hale’s funeral, all it took was one look at Margaret and everything else, including Outwood Lane, was utterly forgotten. </p><p>This time, however, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of making a fool of himself. </p><p>“What do you need, Miss Hale?” he asked quietly, his expression so cool and serious that it unsettled her. Mr. Thornton was usually so easy for her to read - every pointed word, each icy glare, and all those secret tender glances had been her cold comforts for many weeks now - but this evening he was eerily inscrutable. </p><p><em>Walled off</em>, she thought, her heart sinking. Margaret realized she was still idling in the doorway, so she stepped forward, closing the door carefully behind her. </p><p>“I’m so sorry for interrupting your work,” Margaret began, hoping that if she kept speaking she wouldn’t lose her nerve. “My father thanks you for the book. He is well, but he was surprised not to receive an explanation alongside it…he was worried…you are his dearest friend these days and he misses you…” <em>I miss you, too</em>, she added wordlessly, hoping he understood her. <em><br/></em></p><p>John wasn’t ready to cede her anything, but her artless manner quirked at his heart. Her large, soft eyes searched him earnestly before dropping to her hands. </p><p>“Please tell my dear friend that I miss his company, too, and pass along my apologies,” he replied as evenly as possible. “The strike…we are behind on orders. I shall write him tomorrow with a more worthy explanation.” <em>There is no worthy explanation. It kills you to see her when you visit him, that’s all there is.</em> </p><p>Margaret was at a loss as to how to respond. Emotional John was easy, even when he was angry. At least then she could drop into her old habit of sparring with him. But this John gave her so little with which to work.</p><p>“I…I will. Thank you. I- …there’s something else.” She bit her lip. It was now or never. She had to try, even if he wasn’t willing to meet her halfway. “About what happened at Outwood…”</p><p>John noticeably stiffened. “What about it?” he asked, more brusquely than he intended. “Your secret is safe with me. But you run great risks, allow me to say, in being so indiscreet.”</p><p>“But you don’t understand!” Margaret cried. “I’ve wanted to tell you the exact truth since that evening, but I couldn’t…another’s well-being was at stake…”</p><p>“The exact truth!” he replied, cutting her off as his ire rose and the ice returned to his eyes. “Very few people do speak the exact truth. I have given up hoping for it. Miss Hale. What is your explanation? You must perceive what I cannot but think.”</p><p>“The gentleman you saw with me is my brother, Frederick Hale…”</p><p>“Your…brother?” Thornton’s brow furrowed in confusion, but the vicious edge left his voice and features. “You have a <em>brother</em>?”</p><p>“Yes!” she continued eagerly. “We rarely speak of him because he is in danger. He fled abroad years ago because the navy wants to execute him as a mutineer, but in truth, he was attempting to protect members of the crew from a violent captain. The man was not sane…Frederick had to do something…he had no other option…”</p><p>“And so you and your father sent for him as your mother was so ill…” Thornton finished, completing the puzzle. “And as he is imperiled by circumstances with the navy, you lied to Inspector Watson to protect him?”</p><p>“Yes,” Margaret croaked out, dangerously near tears. “I didn’t mean to put you in the middle of that. It was mortifying enough to have to lie, but I didn’t think I had a choice. No one could know Frederick was here, at least not until he was out of the country. Leonards practically ambushed him at the station, after taunting Dixon that he would find him and turn him in for the reward money. Frederick pushed him away on the platform, and the man scampered off - neither of us had any idea he would soon be dead. And then when I learned what you did for us, I felt so…abased. There is no excuse for lying as I did. I am not proud of it, but now that Frederick is safely out of the country, I owe you this explanation. And my thanks, on behalf of all three surviving Hales.”</p><p>She paused to breathe, her tears finally making paths down her cheeks as she remembered John's steely expression at the station. “I deserve your disapprobation. What you must have thought of me! What you must still think of me.” </p><p>John struggled with the implications of this revelation. On one hand, it restored his previously-unwavering faith in Margaret’s character, but on the other, it fundamentally changed nothing about their circumstances. He'd quietly surpressed the inquest to protect her, not to further his own romantic interest. And had he never learned the true identity of Margaret's station companion, he would have continued loving her as deeply as ever. As for Margaret’s feelings, he assumed that they, too, remained essentially unaltered. She did not love him, and even in the absence of a rival, all the chivalrous gestures in the world would not change that. </p><p>“You owe me nothing,” he replied simply, his voice tinged with sadness. He longed to comfort her physically, but he knew better than to try. His already-battered heart couldn’t bear any more rejection at the hands of Margaret Hale.</p><p>“And while I do appreciate the explanation, Miss Hale, it changes nothing of consequence.” It was the gentlest way he could conceive to reassure her that she was in no way obligated to him. As his heart crumbled to pieces for the thousandth time that week, he noted idly that the massive desk between them was an effective metaphor for their situation. </p><p>Margaret’s own heart caught in her throat. “Then you…you no longer care for me?” she asked earnestly, not realizing she’d misunderstood him. </p><p>“What?” he asked, momentarily stunned by her question, expression, and the implications of both. </p><p>“You no longer love me and there’s nothing I can do to win back your good opinion.” She stared at the floor, a strange choking sensation overtaking her heart, while John’s dared to rejoice. </p><p>“Margaret!” </p><p>Before he realized what he was doing, John was on his feet, scrambling around the cursed desk to be nearer to her. </p><p>“Oh my Margaret, what are you telling me?” He took her hands in his, searching her face for confirmation. His voice was still hesitant, hoarse with emotions that threatened to bubble over at her command.</p><p>For several long moments, Margaret could only stare back at him, lost as she was in the tender blue of his gaze. <em>I’m telling you that I love you and only you and I would rather die a spinster aunt than marry anyone else!</em> she thought, on the brink of willing herself to say it aloud.</p><p>But she wouldn’t get the chance, at least not that night. Just as she was about to reveal her whole heart to John Thornton, Margaret was interrupted by purposeful, staccato footsteps outside the office and the sound of protesting hinges as the door swung open with considerable energy. </p><p>Margaret didn’t bother turning around. She didn’t need to - she knew who it was. </p><p>In those brief moments before the boom lowered, she conveyed as much as she could to John Thornton with her expression alone. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is where the story really begins to depart from the novel. ;) As usual, bits and pieces of Gaskell remain.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. A Duty to Perform</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Margaret and John are interrupted.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry it took so long to get this show back on the road. There's more to come, obviously, but hopefully this provides some of the catharsis you guys so richly deserve. ;)</p><p>Thank you so much to everyone who has offered kind comments and likes. I appreciate it - keep the feedback coming! </p><p>Happy new year!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took a mere three seconds for Hannah Thornton to officially make her presence known to the two thwarted lovers standing before her, but to them it seemed an eternity. </p><p>Margaret knew it was Mrs. Thornton before the door opened. Though her steps were as hard and decisive as her personality, there was a quickness - and a lightness! - to them that was unmistakable. But even without this clue, Margaret’s sense of poetic injustice decreed that Hannah Thornton should be the creature most likely to separate them again once they finally came together. </p><p>John, on the other hand, was so engrossed in Margaret’s impending confession that it took seeing his office door practically thrown from its hinges to register that they were no longer alone. Still, his gaze remained locked on the raven-haired object of his affections. At that moment, John Thornton wouldn’t have cared if a herd of wild elephants ransacked the mill — his need to hear Margaret Hale declare her love for him outweighed every other consideration, even his own, dear mother’s feelings.  </p><p>The eternity ended as Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat awkwardly, the black silk taffeta of her voluminous skirt rustling conspicuously in the silence as she stepped toward them. </p><p>From the parlour window, she’d seen Margaret striding across the mill yard toward the office block. While the stately widow couldn’t have guessed the girl’s precise intentions at that moment, she knew enough about the Hales to understand that if they were good for anything, it was wasting her John’s time and goodwill. Certainly, her son was very fond of the redundant old clergyman, but she knew - despite John’s protestations - that it was the girl…that woman…who could wrap him around her finger like no one else ever could. Not even Hannah Thornton herself. No matter how often she cursed the Hales, philosophy, Latin, Greek, and her son’s studies, John was still as hopelessly devoted to it - and to them - as ever. </p><p>“Come to the house, Miss Hale,” she began firmly, in her usual, businesslike manner. “Your mother would never forgive me if I left you to wander about a cold, nearly-deserted mill at dusk…” </p><p>“Please leave us, Mother,” John interrupted, his voice low but as firm as Mrs. Thornton’s. “Miss Hale comes with a message for me from my friend, Mr. Hale. You need not concern yourself.” It was the truth, he reasoned, finally breaking eye contact with Margaret in order to stare down his mother. It left out some of the most important parts, to be sure, but it was still the truth. </p><p>Margaret finally lowered her own eyes, now that the spell between them was well and truly broken. Their hands were still intertwined, however, with no hint of loosening grip on either side. She squeezed his warm fingers where they laced through hers, content enough for the moment to let John handle his mother while her mind whirled in search of some excuse to get him away from there, and alone again. </p><p>The state of their hands was not lost on Mrs. Thornton. </p><p>“It is not proper, John,” the elder Thornton nearly spat in response, her voice piping upwards in preparation for an argument. “Miss Hale is welcome to her conceited, independent ways anywhere else in Milton, but not at Marlborough Mills. Not again.” </p><p>John stiffened perceptibly, but all Margaret could do was lower her head further, as if to shrink herself clear out of the room. </p><p>“I- am sorry,” she finally stammered out, before John could take his mother’s bait. Margaret hadn’t planned on saying much of anything, so the sound of her voice was perhaps more of a surprise to herself than either of the others. </p><p><em>Anything to keep them peaceful</em>, she thought, her mind nearing panic. The very last thing she wanted was to give Hannah Thornton yet another reason to hate her. In the back of her mind, as she searched for something calming to say, Margaret could hear her father’s voice, in conversation many months before with her mother: <em>“I fancy Mrs. Thornton is as haughty and proud in her way as our little Margaret here is in hers.”</em></p><p>“Papa was very worried about Mr. Thornton,” Margaret continued earnestly. “He had expected to see him this evening, to discuss some… important matters.” It wasn’t an elegant excuse, but it was as much the truth as John’s earlier admission. </p><p>Mrs. Thornton wasn’t convinced, or moved. She let out a short, booming laugh that dripped with savage - almost malevolent - pleasure, and fixed her narrowing eyes on Margaret. “John is very busy with the mill now that the strike is over, Miss Hale. I heard him instruct the boy to send his regrets. Surely nothing is so very pressing that it cannot wait until tomorrow at the least…” </p><p>John gradually, gently extricated his fingers from Margaret’s, finally turning his full attention to Mrs. Thornton. He knew she’d intended to draw blood with the snide reference to the strike and Margaret’s sympathy for his workers. </p><p>“Go back into the house, Mother. This matter is between me and the Hales,” he ordered her quietly. John Thornton loved his mother more than anyone else in the world - almost - and there was virtually nothing he would deny her. Except, of course, those things that would drive a wedge between himself and Margaret. </p><p>“Miss Hale, I have a duty to perform,” Mrs. Thornton continued, ignoring her son. “I promised your poor mother that, as far as my poor judgment went, I would not allow you to act in any way wrongly, or inadvertently, without remonstrating; at least without offering advice, whether you took it or not…”</p><p>John closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead in frustration. He interrupted her with a louder and more theatrical sigh than he’d intended. “You have always been the best of parents to me, Mother. You have been my most ardent supporter and my dearest friend. You have never interfered in my business as mill master, and you have trusted me to make my own way in the world without question…almost.”</p><p>Mrs. Thornton knew she was guilty of second-guessing her son’s admiration for Margaret Hale, and she made no effort to hide her feelings from him on that score. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again when she saw a dark expression pass over his face. </p><p>“I value your motherly advice, as I am sure Miss Hale does. But that must wait. I shall walk you back to Crampton, Margaret, and Mother—“ he paused, taking his mother’s wrist gently in his large, warm hand. “We shall continue our conversation later.” </p><p>Mrs. Thornton stared at her son, withdrawing her hand quickly as if physically burned by his betrayal. She wasn’t surprised, really, but she couldn’t help but feel wounded at the rejection. </p><p>“Find her a cab, John, before it is too late,” she pleaded with unintentional dual meaning, much as she’d pleaded with him the night before he first proposed. She could see him being pulled into the girl’s whirlpool of seduction, like some helpless Greek sailor sucked into the depths of Charybdis. If she could just separate them for one more night, make him listen to reason, then perhaps she could protect him from more disappointment at the hands of Miss Margaret Hale. “Go to Crampton tomorrow evening, and I will call on the Hales in the morning.” </p><p>It had, in fact, only just occurred to Mrs. Thornton that perhaps Margaret had matrimonial designs on John after all. She didn’t expect a true change of heart - no, Margaret Hale had been very clear from the beginning how she felt about manufacturers and mill towns - but Hannah Thornton knew that the Hales essentially lived in genteel poverty. If Mr. Hale’s desire to see John had to do with financial difficulties, then perhaps Miss Hale had taken it upon herself to solve the problem by exploiting John’s devotion to her. Or perhaps Miss Hale’s Outwood paramour had left her in some sort of trouble, and she was desperate for a way out. No matter what foolish decisions John might make under the circumstances, Mrs. Thornton could not rest until Margaret came clean about some of her more troubling behaviors of late. Even if she couldn’t force them apart, John’s mother hoped that she could at least invoke the last wishes of Maria Hale as a last-resort effort to appeal to Miss Margaret Hale’s better nature. </p><p>“By all means, please do call,” Margaret replied hastily, grasping for some way out of this hellish situation. “But—“</p><p>“I shall take her home, Mother,” John interjected firmly, tired of being made to feel like an adolescent boy in his own mill. “And we shall <em>both</em> call on the Hales tomorrow.” </p><p>As much as he hated the idea of his mother haranguing Margaret about anything, he also understood, and respected, that Mrs. Thornton, Mrs. Hale, and Miss Hale had forged their own relationships apart from him. He didn’t know the particulars - it wasn’t his business, after all - but he knew that Maria Hale and his mother had developed an understanding about Margaret. While his mother might not like Margaret, John knew that the Thornton matriarch was honorable and would dispatch her duty to Mrs. Hale in an honest, if not entirely gentle, way. </p><p>But he would not give his mother an opportunity at Margaret before he’d gotten his. John Thornton wasn’t a selfish man, but he’d waited long enough. And if this walking interview ended the way he assumed he would, he would have more than enough reason to return to the Hales’ for a second night in a row. </p><p>***</p><p>The mill yard was dark and silent as John Thornton and Margaret Hale finally approached the lodge-door that would release them into Marlborough Street. Margaret glanced up at her walking companion, now once again fully dressed with hat, cravat, and coat in place. In the glow of the moonlight - and of the street lamps just beyond the mill gates - she could make out the strong angles of his face, his dark hair and sideburns standing out against the paleness of his skin. </p><p>After what seemed like hours of suppressing nearly every feeling during the battle of self-preservation against Mrs. Thornton, Margaret’s butterflies had surfaced once again, reminding her how much she loved John and, truth be told, how beautifully terrifying it was to be alone with him. She ached to touch him, but she didn’t know how. Not that these were proper thoughts to begin with. But for a woman of nineteen, having received two proposals of marriage, Margaret was very embarrassed to admit even to herself that she knew painfully little about courtship, or of men. If only her mother were still with them. Or Frederick, for that matter. It was a shame that Margaret couldn’t even write candidly to her own sibling for some brotherly advice for fear of drawing too much attention to him. </p><p>Once in the street, John offered Margaret his arm. She took it gratefully and squeezed, marveling at the muscles concealed under the wool of his coat. </p><p>He had been mulling over what to say for the entire length of the mill yard, opting instead to let Margaret speak. John paused at the corner, where he could clearly see every one of Margaret Hale’s features in the lamplight. “I believe you had something to tell me, Miss Hale.”</p><p>Margaret colored, her cheeks glowing hot in the autumn evening’s chill. She lowered her eyes momentarily - what had she planned to say? She couldn’t remember - then finally threw caution to the wind and met his gaze with her own. </p><p>“Your eyes are almost impossibly blue,” Margaret heard herself sigh, which elicited a chuckle from her companion. </p><p>“Besides that,” he replied wryly, a hint of darkness in his expression that brought Margaret’s heart into her throat. </p><p>“I love you, John Thornton. There, does that please you?” she blurted out, aiming for archness, yet shocked to discover that the last few syllables were nearly choked off by a sob of relief. In fact, it took several long minutes - and quite a few more sobs - before Margaret Hale could do anything but cry into (a very grateful) John Thornton’s shoulder. </p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Now I Love...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A bit of sugar.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you like it. </p><p>Sorry, Mrs. G, for some of the references... ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eight minutes of ragged tears later, John pulled back slightly to avail Margaret of his handkerchief. After the months of stress and torment she’d endured - at least some of which was his doing, he was horrified to realize - he’d thought it best to simply let her cry. </p><p>Margaret accepted it gratefully, dabbing absently at her eyes and cheeks before turning her attention to his now very damp shoulder. “Good God, Margaret Hale” she muttered, poking ineffectually at soaked wool with the square of fine cotton. </p><p>“Margaret,” he interrupted gently, a hand wandering to her cheek in a vain attempt to ward off the remnants of her sadness. “Look at me. You asked me a question earlier and I have yet to provide an answer.”</p><p>She met his eyes, overcome by what she found in them. “Oh John - Mr. Thornton…I am not good enough!” </p><p>“No, love,” he admonished her affectionately, unable to stifle a tiny half-smile. “You mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness.”</p><p>Margaret mirrored his smile, in spite of herself. How charming he was when he wasn’t scowling. “But I was horrible to you,” she insisted. “You were nothing but kind to me and my family, and I was awful! Contrary, really, merely because…” </p><p>“Because… what?” he prompted her, hints of pride and good-natured smugness developing in his expression. </p><p>“Because-“ Margaret stopped short, her cheeks growing as red and hot as coals. He wasn’t going to make this easy. </p><p>“Because I am not a gentleman?” John was almost ashamed of the perverse pleasure her confessions brought. Almost. </p><p>“Yes! And no - I have known since August at least that you are as worthy as any of them…” Margaret lowered her eyes again, debating silently whether to continue fumbling through her confession. She felt unequal to the task of expressing herself, truly, but there was also the humiliating reality that the feelings she sought to explain were deeply, awfully, deliciously <em>wrong</em> for her to feel, let alone admit. </p><p>“I was horrible to you because I- I <em>liked</em> you.” <em>Liked</em> him? <em>Oh Margaret…</em> “It frightened me. You frightened me…you were - are - so different. I never knew how insipid mere ‘gentlemen’ were until I fought with you…” <em>God, why is everything to do with you so…mortifying?</em></p><p>Her meaning was not lost on John, his immediate physical reaction an insistent reminder that conversations like these were best conducted anywhere <em>except</em> a public street-corner, even one as quiet and deserted as this one. </p><p>“I must get you home to your father…” he muttered, his voice again as hoarse and trembling as it had been an eternity before in his office. Instead of moving away from her, however, he drew her closer at the waist with one arm, while the fingers of his other hand gently grasped her cheek and jaw. </p><p>Struggling against the twin urges to run or throw herself at him, Margaret glanced up into his eyes. What had once been ice, then warm sapphire like a deep summer sky, was now fire. She remembered that fire from August - the day of the proposal. The fluttering inside her suddenly bloomed into a breathless whimper as the tip of his thumb grazed her parted lips, and that was enough to snap apart whatever remained of John Thornton’s self control. </p><p>It wasn’t the languid, dreamy kiss he’d planned for her, but it was in no way wanting. Margaret - who had no experience from which to draw, and in fact had no expectations at all of such things, thanks to the inanity of Edith’s reports on the matter - was certainly not disappointed. As she floated off into oblivion, she noted that John Thornton kissed much like he conducted arguments - with passion, vigor, and determination. No wonder he’d acted so spitefully after her rejection - all of this…<em>feeling</em> and nothing to do about it except…stew? Margaret quickly realized that as ready as she was to think about Mr. Thornton in <em>certain</em> ways, she wasn’t quite prepared to consider the male alternative to <em>stewing</em>. </p><p>“I assume…this means that you still love me?” she whispered meekly when they finally broke for breath, completely unaware of how irresistibly large her eyes had become. </p><p>“Now I love, and will love…” he reminded her gently, still holding her face in his warm, expansive hands. “Of course, dearest Margaret…My Margaret…you must know by now that I have no other reason for being.” </p><p>It was hyperbole, but it made her smile. “Your <em>raison d’être</em> is Marlborough Mills, but I shall be content with second place…” Margaret countered, suddenly conscious that John’s attentions had sent her bonnet tumbling down her back. </p><p>Thoughts of the mill sobered him, but only slightly. “I cannot guarantee the mill’s future,” he confessed. “But that matters very little, compared to you. Margaret - I promise that if you agree to marry me, you will always be safe and loved beyond measure, even I am not always the master of Marlborough Mills.” </p><p>Margaret assumed this was hyperbole, too - she had no way of knowing the real dangers that faced the mill in the aftermath of the strike - but it wouldn’t have mattered. “I would marry you if you were a frog living in a well, John Thornton.” She smiled up at him, running her fingers over the stubble on his jaw before kissing him once more. “There, now you are a prince.” </p><p>“I am no Oxford scholar,” he challenged her. “But I do remember my fairy tales, and if I recall correctly, it took three nights <em>in the princess’ bed</em> to return the prince to his true form.” </p><p>Margaret laughed - her first heartfelt laughter in a year - and threw her arms around his neck. “Then you will have to wait a few weeks for the banns to be read and our wedding to take place,” she declared, with mock hauteur. “Now come, frog!” she added with a giggle, reaffixing her bonnet to the back of her head, and taking his hand. “We have some news for my father.” </p>
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